Fid's Crusade Page 2
I was bereft. The hero had managed to take everything from me. My faith in humanity, my goals for the future, my sense of self. My brother. I’d given up the entirety of my being, stained my soul with violence and blood to force Bronze to feel my pain. And then Bronze had stolen even my revenge.
There was nothing left to me save for guilt and a suit of powered armor equipped with sufficient armaments to level a small city.
◊◊◊
“Whatcha drawing?” I’d asked, years earlier. The class was over and my students had long since funneled out of the room; I’d gotten distracted grading papers and my brother had patiently remained in the area that I’d set aside for him at the front of the lecture hall. There were comics and books and an army of action figures to keep him entertained, but Bobby was currently laying on his belly surrounded by crayons and craft paper.
“An adventure!” he chirped in reply. “It’s us, but not now ’cause I need to be bigger before I’m Strongboy.”
“That’s your superhero name?” I smiled.
“Uh-huh. And this is you!”
The likeness wasn’t complimentary—a skinny chalk-white figure with long fingers, a messy scribble of hair and the beginnings of a pot belly—but I thought that the oversized head was an interesting abstraction to represent my cerebral capabilities. Although my actual skull was average in shape and size, Bobby apparently believed that my brain needed a larger container. That, at least, I thought to be flattering.
“How’d I get that hero name?” I asked, looking at the picture’s label.
“Because you’re a P-H-D doctor, and ‘P-H’ is pronounced ffffff.”
I laughed, “Well…get up, Strongboy. It’s late.”
“I’m not Strongboy yet,” he complained, piling up his drawings before pushing himself to his feet. “I need to be bigger.”
“I don’t know…you’re getting pretty big. Make a muscle!”
He complied with an impish grin, flexing dramatically; I checked his biceps and made suitably impressed sounds. Bobby giggled.
“I think you’re almost ready,” I told him, grunting as I lifted him up and made ready to leave. With my free hand, I checked my pocket to make sure that I had my keys.
“No, wait,” he squirmed until I let him down, then hurried to the pile of toys and snatched up an action figure with yellowish metallic skin. His favorite. “Ok, we can go.”
◊◊◊
The armor was disassembled and I moved back to Cambridge. MIT was eager to have me back; the five-year absence hadn’t even affected my tenure. I taught classes, took classes, performed research, earned a few more doctorates...It’s not that I thought it possible to put Doctor Fid behind me, it was only that I lacked motivation. In a listless malaise, I returned to that which was simple.
When I reestablished my presence in academia, many of my colleagues came to me and expressed their support. “I was so sorry to hear about Robert,” they would say, “He seemed like a great kid.” None of them approached me directly after the incident. Bobby’s middle-school friends did, trying to comfort me in the awkward, honest way that only children can manage. They hugged me and cried and touched some of Bobby’s toys and told me stories and cried some more. The adults, though, my peers and coworkers...they kept at a distance. They left me to my grief when my grief burned, but a half-decade later they finally felt comfortable offering consolation.
At some subconscious level they must have recognized that my anguish bordered on madness. Adults are flustered by those who are mad; they look the other way and keep their distance. When I returned, I imagined that my fellows breathed a sigh of relief and decided that their fears had been imagined.
(Children are more inquisitive about strangeness than they are embarrassed by it. That is, perhaps, why I’d always connected with my brother so well despite the decade of age between us. I’ve always been somewhat odd. I’d never really fit among my peers, socially; when I was a youth, I was too intellectually advanced to connect with others of my own age, and by the time I was fourteen and attending college I was too emotionally immature to relate to my fellow students. Bobby was four years old then, and there was something about his boundless enthusiasm and curiosity that delighted me. He was a normal kid, but he smiled whenever I spent time with him. Bobby listened. He cared with an intensity that was astonishing.)
Strangely, the faculty were more open to working with me when I returned to academia. I was invited to partner with researchers who had, previously, seemed standoffish due to my youth. I was still at least a decade or two younger than them, but somehow witnessing my breakdown and supposed recovery made me more approachable. Less of a threat. I was still numb and directionless, of course, but perhaps I was also less driven and intense. Our team shared credit for a Nobel Prize and I published papers in whatever fields my peers pointed me towards.
For six years, Doctor Fid was nothing but a series of poorly labeled crates in a storage garage in Somerville. At the time, reporters postulated that the villain had been seriously injured (or died) of wounds inflicted during that last battle with Valiant on the White House lawn. Later, reporters would refer to those six years as the calm before the storm.
Not all wounds heal with time, but some do grow dull. A bearable ache, always uncomfortable but at least the pain was familiar. So it was with my own malaise. Bobby had been dead nearly as long as he’d been alive and I was somewhat surprised to find that my own life continued on. I had my studies and research, my students and my fellow professors.
A social misfit I may have been, but complete isolation had never suited me. One noted psychologist often publicly claimed that Doctor Fid’s behavior could be partially explained by childhood isolation or absentee parents, but that supposition was wholly incorrect; my parents might not always have known how to deal with their precocious and frighteningly brilliant firstborn, true, but they’d loved and supported me as best as they’d been able. They always were remarkably patient with me when I’d taken apart a vehicle or appliance to see how it worked but had gotten distracted before choosing to reassemble it. They were gentle when an experiment went awry and I required medical assistance, and they sang lullabies when I had difficulty sleeping.
I must have been a terribly difficult child. How does one comfort a youth who has developed mathematical models to accurately predict the timing and path of atmospheric electrostatic discharge, and yet still flinches and cries silently at the sound of thunder? My emotional development did not occur at the same pace as my intellectual growth. In retrospect, it seemed likely that dichotomy led to an uneven maturation.
At thirteen, I designed my first breeder reactor. I was eighteen when I received my first doctorate and accepted employment at MIT, nineteen when I became my brother’s guardian, and twenty-one when I watched my brother die.
◊◊◊
Bobby is eleven years old today, and it is the most beautiful summer afternoon in recent memory. The warm breeze smells like freshly cut grass, healthy trees and salt blown in from the sea, and the sky is so clear and blue that it seems unnatural. We both still have sand in our hair from building castles that were swallowed by the tides, but our beach blankets and plastic buckets have been packed away back in the rental van. I’d forgotten the sunscreen and I’m sure we’ll be lobster pink in the morning, yet right now I am too happy to care.
Bobby bounces as we walk, giddy with anticipation; I hadn’t been able to keep his birthday surprise a secret any longer. After months of searching, I’d puzzled out Bronze’s secret identity and we’re on our way to surprise him at his office. I’m going to introduce my baby brother to his hero.
Arranging a meeting with Bronze’s alter-ego, Paul Riley, had been simple. Paul works in maritime research and I have patents for a submersible drone that will be invaluable. I’d told Mr. Riley’s secretary that I chose his firm because we were relocating to the area; at the time, the statement had been subterfuge but now I’m considering moving for real. Bobby hasn’t s
miled like this since before the car accident that took our parents.
Paul Riley had offered to meet us in the lobby and guide us up to his office; I see him near the entrance as we approach his building. Bronze’s counterpart is a fit man in his early thirties with black hair and dark eyes, and his ruddy complexion tells me that he probably spends most of his time working outdoors despite the well-tailored business suit that he’s wearing today.
“That’s him,” I whisper to Bobby. “Remember, don’t say anything until we’re in private.”
Bobby’s eyes widen and he grips my hand tight, trembling. His skin is warm and soft; he doesn’t have any calluses. He spends too much time indoors, too much time with me.
We’re across the street from Bronze’s office when the first missile hits. Someone starts screaming and I hear shrapnel and debris scatter along the asphalt. Reflexively, I scoop my brother up into my arms and sprint towards a park bench with concrete sides and thick wooden slats. I’m running as fast as I can, awkward and desperate and terrified.
There is a Paragon Research facility at the end of the block and the terrorist supervillain Locust is attacking. He’d assaulted the New Mexico location only a few weeks earlier; I’d seen it on the news. Being close is different from watching on a screen. Terrifying! My chest aches and my eyes sting; there’s something in the air, an acrid taste I don’t recognize, and my breath is already coming in desperate gulps.
A score of foot soldiers wearing Locust’s symbol pour out of an armored truck, firing indiscriminately to clear the road and cause chaos as they swarm towards the gate. There are more shouts, different voices and I hear a little girl cry for her mother. In my head, I’m designing better surveillance, counter weapons, heavy armor, anything that could keep Bobby safe, but my workshop is hundreds of miles away and all I have time to do is try to make sure my brother is behind the bench.
In the lobby, Paul Riley is staring right at us. I’ve researched his power set; he can transform his body, gaining nearly a foot of height and skin that appears to be made of his namesake material. Once metamorphosed, he is strong and fast and has moderately strong telekinesis that only affects metal.
Paul Riley could shift to his heroic form in a heartbeat, but he is in public among coworkers and people who know him. He could reach us, he could get Bobby to safety, could use his power to disarm all of Locust’s thugs and leave only the insectoid, acid-spitting villain as a serious threat, but doing so would certainly cost him his secret identity. The moment seems to take forever as he weighs the value of his privacy against the speed of his response. I can see him considering how many steps it will take for him to get into a private room, how many extra seconds it will take to make a clean entrance. He makes his choice.
“Ow.” Bobby looks bewildered, holding his chest. For the first time in my entire life I can’t think. I can’t calculate the angles, can’t figure out what I did wrong. I’m holding my brother, shouting for help and feeling helpless and small. There is so much blood.
I watch my brother’s eyes as he watches his favorite superhero turn away and run back into the office building.
◊◊◊
I was twenty-six when I disassembled Doctor Fid’s armor and returned to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and I was thirty-one when I made my way back to the storage garage in Somerville where the armor had been hoarded.
Becoming completely absorbed into my work had always been a problem for me. When I was studying or constructing mathematical algorithms or designing new tools and devices it was far too easy to lose track of time and fail to pay attention to my surroundings. The symphony of creation inside my head grew too loud and the external noise faded.
My colleague, Takuma Ichiro, must have talked to me first, must have asked my permission; out of ingrained habit, I must have made an appropriately polite response. Distracted by theoretical physics, I didn’t notice an area of floor space being cleared in the protected low-energy section of our lab, didn’t notice the boxes or the small yellow bookshelf filled with colorful titles.
There was a stack of notepads under one of my arms and my other hand was holding a large mug of coffee; with my hands thus occupied, my pencil was carried between my teeth, and I gnawed thoughtfully as I pondered an annoying magnetic resonance that was polluting the results of the afternoon’s tests. A ten-year-old child was sitting in the corner, quietly playing with superhero action figures while his father worked.
The pencil fell to the floor.
“Terry, I’m so sorry,” Doctor Ichiro jumped to apologize; he must have read something strange in my expression. “I didn’t realize how much Hideki’s play area would look like—”
“It’s all right.” I smiled unsteadily and took a deep breath. “I was just surprised is all. Hey there, kiddo. Your name is Hideki?”
The boy nodded, his eyes wide.
“You like superheroes, hm?” My chest hurt, and I was torn between an aching sadness and bright nostalgia. “My brother liked superheroes. Who’s your favorite?”
Hideki reached for one large figure wearing a black costume with orange highlights and a dark bandit’s mask that covered its lower face; Takuma moved faster, snatching up the offending toy.
“Hideki!” Doctor Ichiro looked aggrieved. “I told you that you can’t play with this one anymore.”
“But Gamma is the coolest!” the boy complained, “He fought Metalstorm and Spiker at the same time!”
“Gamma is a good fighter, but he is not a good person,” Takuma tried to explain, “He has said things that are rude to women. He does not behave well.”
“Gamma is the coolest!” Hideki insisted, voice rising angrily. His small hands clenched into fists. “And if you’re twelve feet tall you don’t HAVE to behave good!”
“Everyone should behave good,” I said quietly. There must have been something odd about my voice, some truth or hint of pain that transcended mere words; Hideki stopped mid-tantrum to listen. “If someone puts on a costume, if they claim to be a superhero...they should have to be a hero. They should be good.”
“Gamma is good!” Hideki pouted. “He beats up bad guys.”
About a month later, a drunk Gamma caused a few thousand dollars’ worth of property damage in his hometown of Atlanta, and a cell-phone recording caught Gamma claiming that he didn’t need to listen to the responding police officer because he was only three-fifths of a cop.
The public relations firms and lawyers swarmed. There was the inevitable scripted public apology in which Gamma stated that he was impaired at the time and that the views expressed did not match his true feelings. A few heroes repudiated Gamma, but others repeated a statement of support for the hero and lauded his supposed ‘bravery’ and ‘honesty’ in holding his press conference. The mighty Valiant, an African-American hero who Doctor Fid had clashed with in Washington, D.C., responded to a reporter’s query with a quiet ‘No comment’. The event was twisted and spun and slipped out from media attention after a week.
Hideki continued to play with his Gamma action figure whenever his father wasn’t looking.
Even then, I recognized that so-called superheroes performed a public service that is both difficult and dangerous; they were marketed, however, as something far greater. They accepted the accolades, pretended to be righteous warriors and icons of justice and all that is good, and yet still quietly accepted a system that protected the undeserving. A thin spandex line that stood in opposition to villains like the very-deceased Locust or the monster who had been Fid but also shielded their peers from accountability.
They accepted worship from children. Didn’t they know how precious that was? How could they live with themselves if they didn’t spend every waking moment struggling to be worthy of such unconditional trust? Someone needed to remind the public that, beneath their colorful costumes and flashy powers, their idols were only human. Someone needed to remind the cape and cowl set that they could—no, should!—aspire to be something more.
&
nbsp; Doctor Fid had never been unmasked. It would have been a relatively simple thing to build a completely different suit of powered armor and come to the public under a new persona. I could try to be the hero that children like Hideki deserved...but it would only be another lie. I’d failed my brother and caused too much heartache to ever be deserving. My inventions had, by now, saved far more lives than Fid had ever harmed, but there would be no salvation for the likes of me.
In a vacuum-sealed and UV-resistant glass case hidden away in a secret bunker, I kept my most prized possession: a series of crayon drawings on construction paper. The Adventures of Strongboy and Doctor Fid.
I smiled, long-term plans beginning to percolate through my mind. A private company, tools and devices, surgical augmentations performed by medical robots, an upgraded powered-armor suit...Doctor Fid would never be the hero who Bobby imagined, but he could at least serve the noble purpose of demonstrating the heroes’ shortcomings. He could inspire some heroes towards greatness and drag others from their pedestals back down to earth.
I could do more, too. With sufficient resources and no bureaucracy holding me back, I could design machines that could generate cleaner energy, purify sea water, grow crops more efficiently and deliver resources in a more equitable manner. I could cure diseases, build tools to protect civilians, create safer buildings and vehicles. Doctor Fid might be a supervillain, but perhaps he could save the world right out from under the fraudulent superheroes’ noses.
Also, someone really did need to punch Gamma in the face. Repeatedly.
◊◊◊
Damn the man!
I’d been careful...studied the frequency of land acquisitions in analogous neighborhoods and applied a Bayesian scatter to add random elements to the pattern such that it should not have too-accurately reflected a pure average. The contracts were neither overbid nor underbid, and I’d even made certain to include a statistically-normal number of errors in the paperwork (with minor variances consistent between each shell company). No software or hardware-based data analysis tool in the world should have indicated a connection! Sadly, there was no consistent model that accounted for human intuition.